The Arrival

by J W Brazier

  “What the blazes!” Ian muttered.

  Impossible! he thought. It can’t be!

  The shapeless, translucent ebony form began to move and crawl along the cave walls, like some giant spider. The acrid torch smoke thickened around Ian, and the fumes stung his eyes.

  “That can’t be real. It’s just … a shadow,” he whispered as he rubbed and wiped at his eyes.

  He steadied the torch to cast his light on the dark shadow. He could clearly see the pair of menacing bloodred eyes through the smoke—and they were coming toward him. Then a rancid smell overpowered him—followed by an ear-piercing scream.

  Ian tried to cover his ears, but the noise slammed into his ears. “Ahhhhh!” Ian groaned.

  He could only watch as the black form slipped toward the cave entrance. The specter’s flight seemed almost panicked, as if at long last its bondage of guardianship over the tomb had ended. A charge of putrid air blasted Ian’s sweaty hair away from his face as the ebony form shot past him.

  Ian gasped, staggered backward several steps, and fell to the ground in an awkward, embarrassing heap. The dreadful sight and sound of the escaping hideous form had completely stunned him. But he scrambled to his feet, now sensing every eye riveted on him. He could only imagine that his shocked expression had transferred his fears to the onlookers. Even though he’d now regained his composure, the damage had been done.

  Close by, Nassir jumped to his feet, abandoning any further prayers to Allah, and then dashed to join his men. The laborers reacted in turn. Panic-stricken, every worker backed farther away. Hysteria erupted again, and a few bolted and fled.

  “Ian!” Charles said. “Are you all right? What did you see?”

  Ian turned his head toward Charles. “I—I’m okay, Doc, but in all sincerity, I don’t know what that … that thing was.”

  Ian blinked and rubbed at his eyes with the backs of his gritty hands. He stepped up to the cave opening to have another look, then inched his upper body farther inside the hole.

  Must have been an optical illusion, he mused.

  No red eyes, no moving transparent forms confronted him now. The surprise specter had disappeared. But what he saw tucked in a hand-hewn corner ignited a smile. There, an undisturbed body lay, wrapped in its burial shroud. He pushed himself farther in and read the Aramaic inscriptions chiseled into the stone—the name of the Jewish man he’d sought all this time.

  “I believe we’ve found our Jew, Charles!” Ian yelled as he eased himself backward out of the sepulcher.

  Ian turned and saw Nassir huddled with his men at a distance.

  “Sayyid,” Nassir shouted, “the tomb is cursed! What the rabbi said is true. Please, I beg of you, leave this man’s body where it lays or we’ll all die!”

  Ian cocked an eyebrow. He saw the rabbi to his right, still bobbing back and forth, praying.

  “No way,” Ian whispered.

  He didn’t intend to leave what he’d spent eighteen months in hell to find.

  “That’s stupid superstition, Nassir. Get the men over here and widen this entrance!” Ian barked.

  “But—But …” Nassir said, eyes wide.

  “Get a move on it! NOW, I said! There’s no time to waste.”

  Ian turned and faced Charles. Seeing the doctor standing there in the dirt, Ian could only grin, feeling the sweet confidence of success they had both longed to see.

  “Doc, I believe we can pack our bags. Our Jew lies just behind this wall, if the inscriptions I’m seeing are correct.”

  A broad smile etched its way across Charles’s face; he, too, knew that at long last, they were going home.

  The workers had widened the entrance, no doubt in a hurry to get away from the tomb as quickly as possible. Ian stepped inside for a closer inspection. The inscriptions bore the signature of a religious sect called the “Zealots.” Their carved inscriptions named and honored the Jew. The light of Ian’s torch soon found a peculiar object. He squatted to one knee and picked up a single coin, a shekel, and rubbed the dirt away with his thumb. He looked up and stared at the two-thousand-year-old corpse stretched out in the corner. Ian couldn’t stop a gleeful curl from creasing the corners of his mouth.

  “You almost beat me, you bastard,” he said to the corpse. “My hat’s off to your friends. They did a great job keeping your grave a secret, but not good enough. I’m the one who found you. My name, by the way, is … Ian Taylor.”

  He grinned again, then flipped the coin in the air and caught it, thinking wealth and early retirement a good combination. He stood and stuffed the coin in a pants pocket.

  “Charles!” he shouted. “I need you in here, Doc. We’ve got a body to package and deliver to Haifa. It’s time we go home!”

  *

  May 13: Morning

  Ian had found his elusive two-thousand-year-old Jew. Charles secured the body remains in a hermetic-sealed container for the trip to Haifa and subsequent shipment to America. Ian’s workers, in a furious assault, attacked the breakdown of his camp at a record-setting pace. Was it his promise of an early payday and bonus that had prompted their haste—or was it fear? he wondered.

  The Jew is still in camp. Maybe they want distance between them and the Jew’s supposed curse, he guessed.

  The next obstacle lay ahead: transport of the Jew’s remains north to Haifa and out of Palestine. Thankfully, Ian’s foresight had already secured their safety for the perilous undertaking in the more than eighty-mile drive from Jerusalem to Haifa. Weeks earlier, he’d prearranged their trip through a Haganah officer in the Carmeli Brigade. The officer was under the command of Moshe Carmel, and a direct Jewish Agency liaison to the British Army. The officer was a former patient in Dr. Wagner’s clinic, a fortunate and beneficial surprise.

  Before leaving Jerusalem, Ian took extra precautions. He utilized a trick he’d used during the war in Europe. He ordered Nassir to paint large Red Cross symbols on the canvas sides and tops of their four-truck convoy. His trick worked; they encountered no resistance.

  With Nassir at the wheel, Ian attempted a nap in the lead truck. Dr. Wagner’s truck carried the Jew’s remains and followed Nassir. Ian had pulled his hat down over his eyes and propped his feet up on the dashboard. The uncomfortable position forced his knees tight against his chest. His big frame, he knew, probably looked like a coiled-up spring ready to unwind any moment.

  Nassir was an aggressive driver. The battle-scarred roads, potholes, and sharp turns didn’t discourage his heavy foot. Ian’s body and head bounced and bobbed like a figurine on a spring. Sleep was pointless.

  Ian stirred, jolted from his few seconds of siesta here and there. He sniffed at the air several times, like an animal detecting an unfamiliar scent. Nassir seemed to notice the strange behavior. In doubt of a perceived odor, Nassir sniffed his clothing. In an instant, Ian came alive and uncoiled his stiff long legs, and sat erect. He studied the passing terrain to decipher their whereabouts.

  Energized, he yanked his hat off, thrust his head out his window, and inhaled several deep breaths. His long hair tossed and waved in the humid air. He backed out of the window, placed his hat on his head with flare, and grinned at Nassir.

  “It’s a sea breeze, Nassir. Can’t you smell that salt air?”

  Nassir scowled and cocked an eyebrow.

  “Stop the truck!” Ian yelled.

  “But, Sayyid, there might be snipers lurking about,” Nassir said, but obeyed.

  Clearly angry, Nassir stomped on the break and brought the truck to a quick stop at the top of a hill. A cloud of dust engulfed the truck. The other three trucks followed in quick succession, their breaks screeching to a halt.

  A huge dust cloud drifted past Ian as he scrambled out of the truck and ran toward the road’s edge. Ian noticed that Charles had placed his foot against the dash, bracing against the sudden unexpected stop. Curiosity etched on his face, the doctor piled out of his truck and jogged to the passenger side of Ian’s truck.

  “What is it now, N
assir?” Charles asked.

  “No clue, Doc. He’s a crazy man.”

  Ian smiled at the comment, and heard Charles groan and then march toward him.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it, Doc?” Ian gestured with a sweep of his hand. “Welcome to Haifa, the shimmering pearl of Palestine. The Mediterranean Sea, its front door; Mount Carmel, its back door.”

  Despite the scars from battle, the white pearl of a city still sparkled against an aqua-blue sea. Charles appeared to forget his annoyances and trepidations, mesmerized by the scenic beauty. He nodded and inhaled a deep breath of the fresh sea air.

  “It sure is, Ian, without a doubt, beautiful.”

  Smoke from smoldering fires, though, still lingered in small areas around the refinery and railhead from the battle of Operation Passover Cleaning. The Jews now had control of the strategic port city and Palestine’s largest deep-water port.

  “Shema Yisrael, Adonai elohenu, Adonai ehad,” Charles whispered.

  “You mind translating all that, Doc?”

  Charles looked at Ian and smiled. “Yes. ‘Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is one.’ These are exciting times to be alive, Ian. We’re witnessing prophecy being fulfilled before our very eyes.”

  “Okay, Doc, I get it. You’ve said that already. You see prophecy, but I see war and greed.”

  Charles didn’t respond, perhaps thinking it wasn’t the time or place for debate, but then he pointed a jutting finger like an excited schoolboy. “Ian, look! Is that our ship?”

  Their white steamer out of Cypress was prominent against a backdrop of British-flagged grays.

  “Yes, sir! That she is,” Ian said. “The Golden Fleece—a proper name for our ship, wouldn’t you say, given your claims of prophecy and all?”

  The smile on Charles’s face couldn’t have grown any wider. “A proper name indeed, without question.”

  “She’s our transportation out of Palestine, my friend.The British weren’t happy, or says our friend in the Haganah. Look there—tugs are maneuvering her into the dock ahead of the British flagship,” Ian said and pointed.

  “Wow, yes, I see that now. How’s it possible we’re receiving such privileged treatment?”

  “It means one thing, my friend. Solomon Industries has powerful political influences with the British and the UN.” Ian pointed to the nearby remains of a battered ship’s hull. “Look over there.”

  Charles turned to see the derelict vessel. His smile disappeared. “Is that the old Exodus?”

  “Yes, what’s left of her. Our steamer received favored treatment—they didn’t.”

  “More political bungling resulting in yet another Jewish tragedy.”

  Ian nodded. He turned and looked again at the Golden Fleece and hoped they wouldn’t become another misguided UN statistic. He wanted to go home.

  “Ian, why are we still standing here looking at Haifa and our ride home? Let’s go.”

  Ian grinned, squared his shoulders, faced Charles, and extended his right hand. Charles reached out and took his hand.

  “I kept my promise, Charles, ‘O ye of little faith.’ Look at us now; we’re on our way home—and rich.”

  “Nice to hear you quote scripture. Your suggested perspective is all wrong, but yes, you are a man of your word.” Charles released their handshake and gestured with a tip of his hat in respect. “Now can we go? It’s hot out here. My body is aching for a hot bath. Oh, and speaking of baths, you reek, Ian. Let’s go.”

  Charles walked away toward his truck. Ian looked down at Haifa. Nassir jutted his arm out the window and waved while sounding off honks on the truck’s horn as if it were an emergency.

  “This is not a sightseeing tour; it’s a war zone. Let’s go!” Nassir bellowed.

  Ian laughed and climbed back into the truck.

  “Americans are a strange people,” Nassir mumbled as he tried to force and grind the stubborn shift stick into gear.

  *

  The rough and crooked road to Haifa resembled a snake’s slithering trail through desert sand. Navigating the rough mountainous area, Nassir cursed the bad transmission with each shift. A straight stretch of road opened up as he steered out of a downhill sharp curve. When Nassir saw them, he shot Ian a concerned look. Ian stared at the reason for Nassir’s worry. A checkpoint with two artillery emplacements and two sandbagged machine-gun nests blocked the road.

  Nassir pulled his gun from his holster and slid it under his leg. Ian saw the defensive tactic. He knew his friend was a serious man and wouldn’t hesitate to use his weapon regardless of the outcome. Nassir wouldn’t wait for permission.

  “That’s not wise, Nassir. Our paperwork and clearances are in order, so the Haganah won’t bother you.”

  Nassir forced a grin, but his furrowed brow and cynical façade said something else: he was behind enemy lines; there were no rules.

  “Nassir, let me have all your weapons.”

  “What? No!” Nassir muttered.

  But he finally nodded, knowing Ian was right.

  Nassir drove with one hand and peeled off his ammo bandoliers, then unbuckled his .45 automatic holster. He pulled the .45 from under his leg and laid it in Ian’s hand.

  “I feel naked. And I’m keeping my knife,” Nassir said.

  “Okay, fine, but please stay in the truck and try not to agitate those Israeli soldiers.”

  Twenty yards from the roadblock, Nassir slowed to a stop, as did the convoy. Ian stepped off the truck’s running board and slung a leather bag over his shoulder, with their manifests, permits, and passports inside, Nassir knew. Ian waited for Dr. Wagner, and then the two of them headed toward the checkpoint.

  Vulnerability was an unsettling situation for Nassir. “Wait and watch” was uncomfortable. His wait was short lived, though, as a group of menacing Israeli soldiers soon encircled the convoy. Nassir gripped the steering wheel, keeping his hands in plain sight. His eyes narrowed and darted about, calculating each soldier’s defensive positions and his next move, if necessary. He hoped his face looked as scornful as he felt inside.

  Three aggressive Israeli soldiers took up a triangular position in front and on either side of his truck. Nassir turned his head and spit out the window.

  “Jews,” he muttered.

  An Israeli soldier ten feet away from Nassir’s door remained calm and collected. But he apparently couldn’t restrain his impulse to respond to Nassir.

  “Arabs,” he said and spit.

  Nassir grinned. He looked up and saw Ian and Charles returning with an Israeli officer. The officer stopped at his door and thrust Nassir’s papers through the window. Ian got in the truck and closed the door.

  “Nassir,” the Israeli officer said, “your papers are good for three days. After that, I can’t guarantee your safety, nor can your employers. If I were you, I’d get out of Haifa while you can.”

  Nassir took his documents. The officer stepped back and saluted. Ian returned the salute. Nassir sneered and spit out the window. His spittle landed next to the officer’s right foot.

  “I’ll be out in two,” Nassir growled.

  “Not a good time for settling old scores, Nassir. Let’s go,” Ian whispered.

  Nassir ground the stubborn transmission gears, and the truck lurched forward and roared off for Haifa.

  *

  May 13: Late afternoon

  Two weathered tugboats, both rust buckets from the 1930s, took up their separate positions alongside the Golden Fleece’s portside. Their padded bows nudged her hull, one at her bow, the other her stern. Like worker ants immune to difficulties, the two small boats strained and pushed against the ship. Acrid black smoke belched from their engines’ exhaust stacks. Single propellers frothed and churned at the water to hold her secure against the pier. Using his handheld loud hailer, the ship’s captain barked his commands from the bridge on its starboard wing.

  “Secure all lines bow and aft!” he yelled to his third mate standing at the ready, four decks below on the main deck.r />
  The mate acknowledged the captain with a nod and hand wave. He walked to the ship’s starboard bulwarks. The crewmen stood by their mooring stations from bow to stern, their ears attuned to the mate’s deep, graveled voice. A dozen or more dockworkers waited below for the crew to throw their heaving lines.

  “On the deck, heaving lines away. Prepare to lower all lines!” the mate shouted.

  Weighted monkey’s fists took flight like confetti in the air over the railing, toward the waiting dockworkers. Heaving lines trailed. With the thick mooring lines attached to heaving lines, dockworkers pulled and guided the heavy ropes toward them and around massive pylons.

  “Make fast all lines fore and aft. Take up the mid-ship slack. Four men step aside and make ready to lower the gangway!” yelled the third mate.

  Working together, the ships seamen tugged in unison, taking in the slack on all lines. They laced the taut lines around the ship’s steel bits welded secure at the deck.

  Brawny men with strong backs handled freight up and down gangways. Tugs squeezed ships big and small into every available foot of dock space. Heavy lift cranes, both dockside and aboard ship, loaded and unloaded their ship’s cargo.

  Soldiers snaked off crowded gangways and marched away. Tugs, never idle, pulled ships away from their mooring and turned them out to sea, while others filled the empty space. Civilians fended for passage on anything that floated and was leaving Palestine.

  Ian and Charles watched the beehive of activity at a safe distance from the end of the pier. Charles marveled aloud at how the ship’s crew and dockworkers made their grueling labor look effortless, as if performers in an orchestrated ballet.

  Ian, though, began pacing, anxious to secure the remains of their prized Jew aboard ship. He’d cataloged the Jew’s body remains on the manifest as an eleventh-century crusader.

  Solomon Industries hadn’t missed a single detail, even to supplying the armed guards already on board awaiting their arrival.